Every morning I’d storm back from the garden, frustrated and muttering under my breath. Carrots gnawed down to stubs. Lettuce yanked from the soil. A bean vine bitten clean through. I’d even gone as far as setting up a motion-sensor light and a trail camera, sure I’d catch whatever was sneaking in. I was ready to spot raccoons, maybe a fox, even a brazen deer. What I wasn’t ready for—what never crossed my mind—was the truth. And when it came, it shattered me… and somehow put me back together.
It all began when Runa didn’t come in for breakfast.
Runa’s never been the clingy type. She’s part shepherd, but it’s her spirit that stands out—fiercely independent, stubborn, a little untamed. Even as a pup, she’d sleep under the porch in a storm, refusing to come inside no matter how hard the rain fell. But after her last litter didn’t make it, something in her changed. She stopped playing. Stopped chasing birds or barking at the wind. Mostly, she just slept. She’d slip away to the barn at night and lie there in the silence, like she was trying to disappear.
That morning, I figured she’d done just that—tuned out the world and ignored my calls from the porch. But something didn’t sit right. A gut feeling, maybe. Or guilt—because I hadn’t exactly been gentle with her lately, too caught up fixing fences and blaming phantom foxes for my ruined garden. So I grabbed a biscuit from the jar, pulled on my boots, and headed out.
The barn was still and quiet, sunlight slicing through the slats in golden beams. The usual scent of hay and oil hung in the air. But there was something else. A faint sound. So soft I nearly missed it. I tiptoed past the bales and knelt by the crates we hadn’t touched in months.
And there it was again.
A soft, aching whimper.
My heart stuttered as I peered behind the crates. And there she was—Runa, curled in a tight, protective coil, her body tense but calm. I whispered her name, not sure what to expect. She didn’t flinch. She just looked up at me with those amber eyes, full of something heavy—grief, maybe. Or something even deeper.
Then I saw them.
Two tiny bodies, nestled against her chest. For a moment I thought they were abandoned puppies. But no—these were baby rabbits. Fragile. Still. Eyes sealed shut.
And Runa was caring for them.
Feeding them.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. I just sat there, trying to grasp what I was seeing. This was the same dog who used to bark wildly at anything that moved in the fields.